But hesitation would have led to Aire’s capture. That giant knight could take a circle of warriors, however a camp full of them would tackle him in less time than it took to spit on the ground. His superior rank be damned, the First Knight of any Season would fail to outshine a vindictive king with a record-breaking temper and a vengeful fuse shorter than his cock. Cross Rhys of Summer, and he wouldn’t forget it.
The company stirred. If a liar found herself as the centerpiece of a deadly army willing to betray their own ruler, that liar ad-libbed. Best to seize the advantage and squeeze any information liable to drip out of them. Alluding to their failed ambushes was a good place to start.
Which units were they fixing to attack? How and when?
Glimpsing Aire’s killing-spree stance, I shook my head the barest fraction.Work with me.
Slamming his lips together, the knight glared. Annoyance and mayhem played tug-of-war across his features. Finally, he hunched to the undergrowth and clipped his head.I’ll always work with you.
The reassurance bolstered me like scaffolding. Concealing my voice beneath a thick brogue accent synonymous with the eastern parts of Autumn, I amplified, “Sorry to crash the party. But you know how it is.”
The inevitable shot out of a female’s wiry mouth. “Who the devil are you?”
Ah. I recognized her from training sessions. Dame Muriel. Third Commander. All right, no fussing around with this one. Basically, treat her like Jeryn.
So who the devil was I?
I rolled the answer across my tongue and ejected it like an arrow. “Rhys’s spy.”
Dead silence. They gawked, their heads swinging between one another.
Aire’s eyebrows punched together. Masquerading the truth as a lie had its perks. For one, it guaranteed consistency. For another, it would get me farther quicker with this bunch. Last, the possibility that I worked for Summer provided a decent scare tactic, one that stayed their weapons.
Speaking of which, a sickle rested on Muriel’s lap. It matched what I’d seen in the tent, an unusual assortment including harvest scythes, cleavers, trunks of roughspun, and enough Summer tinder to keep the oak tree in line. Not usually the assets of an army, but the surplus of wood meant they’d be here while. Likely enough time to get arrested for treason.
Although outside of the tent, they mostly carried fine weapons suited to their statuses—well-crafted swords, hammers, and longbows among them—their choices of second-rate arms inside the armory clashed, which threw me off. Case in point, Dame Muriel usually wielded a blade more aligned with her rank, not a basic sickle. She seemed to be in the midst of polishing the curved edge, as if that would improve things, even though she owned a superior alternative.
That begged the question why she’d feel the need to bother. A closer look at the weapon might help solve that riddle.
Discreetly, I glimpsed the object, signaling Aire to follow my trajectory. Noticing the same thing, he disarmed one sword.Cupping his free palm beside his lips, Aire emitted a ghostly avian wail that quivered across the sky.
Members of the company veered toward the disturbance. As Muriel glanced at the firmament, I craned forward an inch and studied the engraved fox ornamenting the sickle’s edge. It matched the symbols marking all the other curious weapons gathering dust inside the tent.
I reeled away as everyone cut back to me.
“Rhys does not have a spy,” a man declared from his perch.
Crater-shaped scars pitted into his temple, likely from a mace. That identified him as Sir Godfrey.
No doubt Aire had accomplished this within seconds of arriving, but I did a swift pass over the nearest soldiers, committing to memory each recognizable face.
So the Scourge of Summer didn’t keep these ass-kissing pawns up to speed on his supplementary minions. I’d gotten this fact out of Rhys a while back, but their reactions confirmed it. And lucky for me. Except there went any chance of identifying the king’s secondary informant, who’d been keeping an eye on Aire.
“Last time I checked, spies generally weren’t public knowledge,” I tossed back, the axe’s weight resting beneath my cloak. “But then, exceptions have to be made in times of dissent. His Majesty sent me here for a ‘Strict Competency Check.’”
The less elaborate the perjury, the better. Though, I embellished with a phrase Rhys often used. Hence, one-quarter of the knights eased their hold on the weapons.
Several players traded conspiring looks. Here came the next obstacle.
A squire named Peter called out, “How does he communicate with us?”
By way of response, I clocked my gaze to the fire. Rhys used the flames with me, so it stood to reason he did the same with them.
Another knight quizzed, “How long does he wait for a response?”
I crossed my arms. “That’s assuming he waits at all.”
The next question fired. “How many factions do we have within these borders?”
